


Hey Jude

by WilwyWaylan



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Jude the cat, Just dorks being dorks, M/M, lots of silliness and cat, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:42:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22021246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WilwyWaylan/pseuds/WilwyWaylan
Summary: Grantaire would never have guess one could meet someone at 3 AM thankd to a cat. Grantaire was very happy to be wrong.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	Hey Jude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hi0ctane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hi0ctane/gifts).



> I really hope you like this little present!

_Hey Jude_   
_Don't make it bad_   
_Take a sad song and make it better...._

Grantaire held out his hand, tried to reach his phone and smash that alarm away. Of course, the damn thing had taken advantage of the mess on his nightstand to hide under half-read books and a pair of socks that had bothered him too much when he had crashed in his bed. No phone, and the music wasn't stopping. He pat the ground, trying to find the thing. Papers, a handful of brushes, more papers, coffee cups.... phone. He grabbed it, dropped it on the mattress near his head, and squinted at the screen. 3:45 AM. What the fuck ? Why had his alarm started ringing at such an ungodly hour ? Was it finally the rise of the machines ? Where they trying to exhaust him so he wouldn't resist ?

Wait a second. That wasn't his alarm ringing. The screen was back to its usual, innocent black. No blaring lights right in his face, it was as peaceful as a phone should be in the middle of the night. And now that he was a little more awake, he noticed that the sound wasn't coming from his phone at all. And even more, the person singing certainly was no Beatle. Then again, at 3:45 - now 3:50 -, Grantaire probably have been at the peak of his singing abilities either.

He clambered out of bed, trying to avoid the landfill of paint tubes and other implements trying to stab his feet, and made his way to the window. The singing became a little clearer when he opened it, and a bit better too. The culprit was standing just under Grantaire's flat, looking upwards.

Grantaire's heart missed a beat. Then twenty.

The man - boy ? - standing under his window was.... gorgeous. More than gorgeous. The kind of man you could only see in a few specific works of art, the kind carved in marble by very, very skilled artists, with sharp cheekbones, a high forehead barely touched by curly strands of hair, and eyes so big, so clear they seemed to hold the whole sky in them. All this, assembled into a face that would belong in museums. Said face was surrounded by hair turned golden by the light just above him, barely restrained behind his head. The man was wearing a dark sweater looking a bit too thin for the weather, and either very tight jeans or body paint. And he was still singing, looking expectantly at Grantaire. Grantaire, who, of course, didn't have the slightest idea of who he was and what he was doing there.

He leaned out of the window, mentally cursing the cold, and called :

\- Not that I don't like being serenaded by a pretty boy, but at this hour, isn't it a little bold ?

The man jumped at least a feet in the air, as if he hadn't noticed until now he had an audience. Granted, it was kind of hard to notice a dark-haired man against the black background of the window, but still.

\- I'm not.... This is not a serenade, the man answered.

Of course. Of course it wasn't. Pretty boys didn't just decide to stand under windows and sing. Especially not under people like Grantaire's.

\- So what do I owe the pleasure to hear you not-serenading me ?

The man's expression turned to one of embarrassment.

\- My cat, he said simply.

\- Your what ?

The man pointed at something a little on Grantaire's left. There was something white on the ledge, something that looked a lot like a white cat.

\- Oh. Is that your cat ? Because it's been gallivanting around for weeks.

\- He (the man stressed the "he") tends to wander a little. I'm trying to get him home.

\- By singing ?

\- He likes that song.

Grantaire looked at the cat.

\- Is that true ? You like the Beatles ?

He couldn't have been sure in the dim light, but the cat seemed to enjoy it, or at least the attention. Grantaire held out his hand.

\- Here, kitty. Let's not worry your master longer.

The cat stepped forwards to smell his fingers, scoffing a little at the lingering scent of paint thinner. Then decided to just use him as a bridge, stepped along his arm, on his shoulder, and jumped in the flat. Under them, the man made something that sounded like a noise of distress.

\- Don't fret, Grantaire called. I'll buzz you in.

The man raced to the door. Grantaire let him in the hall, unlocked the front door, then went looking for the cat, who had taken residence on his hoodie in the living room and was kneading it, looking very pleased with himself. Good, no need to search further. Grantaire looked around, suddenly very embarrassed with the state of his living room. It wasn't very dirty, no, but he had been busy non stop this week, and well, cleaning had always been very low on his priorities. But now, with less that ten seconds left, he felt suddenly very self-conscious. He barely had time to hide a few bottles and two pizza boxes under the couch, before the blond man barged into the flat, barely taking time to knock before. He made a beeline to the cat, who just looked at him adoringly, scooped him in his arms and held him close, muttering what probably was very sweet nonsense.

Leaving Grantaire all the time in the world to admire him. If in the street, the man had seemed gorgeous, he was stunning under a better light. As Grantaire had guessed, he had very blue eyes, lined with long eyelashes. Some shadows under them, almost... delicate. His mouth itself was a work of art, in a bow to rival Cupid's himself. The lips were chapped, but that didn't deter from their grace. The nose was a little longer than he would have thought, and pointy, but it fit in his face. And his hair... Golden, as he had thought, perfectly framing the face in little ringlets, and in long curls tied together, falling.... oh no, at least to the small of his back in a cascade of gold, pooling in the hood of his sweater. Red, not black, stretched around the wrists like Grantaire's. He was wearing pants, jeans, and yes, they were as tight as they had seemed, hugging everything and.... he had to lower his eyes for a moment. Converse, red, of course. Bigger than his, looking old. The perfect high point.

Indifferent to Grantaire's predicament, the man was still petting the cat, who was nuzzling his neck, purring like a tiny motor. He finally seemed to realize that he was still in someone else's flat and had an audience, and turned to face Grantaire.

\- Thank you for your help, he said simply.

Grantaire snapped out of his trance.

\- Don't mention it. Does he run away often ?

\- Sometimes. He usually comes home after an hour. He didn’t, this time, so I decided to look for him.

\- Have you been looking for long ?

\- Three hours now. Maybe a bit longer.

\- Oh gods, you must be freezing. Do you want some coffee ?

The man seemed to ponder the offer. Please stay, please stay, Grantaire thought, mentally crossing his fingers.

\- I don't want to deprive you of your sleep. You already...

\- Don't worry. I mean, I can sleep whenever I want. I mean, he hastily added when the man frowned, I'm an artist. I make my own schedule.

\- An artist ? What do you do ?

\- I paint, mostly. I try some other medias sometimes, but it's my favourite.

While talking, Grantaire lead the man and the cat to the kitchen. He quickly freed a chair, and put himself to work. He leaned against the counter, trying not to show that his brain cells were blinking like Christmas lights.

\- By the way, what's your name ? I mean, we have a common acquaintance, we're not total strangers any more.

The man smiled - smiled ! -, sending a jolt in Grantaire's chest.

\- And I'm sitting in your kitchen. I'm Enjolras.

He held out a hand over the table. Grantaire rushed to shake it, surprised to find it rough. The knuckles had been scrapped raw recently.

\- A fall ? Grantaire asked casually.

Enjolras looked at his hands for a second. His smsile faltered, and Grantaire cursed himself.

\- A protest that went wrong.

\- A protest ?

Grantaire poured them two mugs of coffee and sat down at the table.

\- You went to a protest ?

\- I organized it, Enjolras answered with a hint of pride in his voice.

\- What were you protesting ?

\- We're opposing the reform of our retirement system. This new law, should it pass, would cause huge prejudice for a large part of the population, greatly reduce their retirement earnings and buying power. All this for a problem that could be solved with a few minor tweaks and a better understanding of demography and its evolution. But....

Grantaire had leaned back, letting the words flow over him. Enjolras had straightened his back, his eyes were shining with determination, and he looked ready to take on the government this instant should he get the opportunity. Enjolras was shining with a blinding idealism ; it wouldn't have taken much for a halo to appear on his head. He was almost.... blinding. Such a burning passion... that was starting to tickle Grantaire. He'd seen enough of those movements to know that they would just fizzle away after a time, when the general public would start to get fed up with strikes and stop supporting them. They didn't amount at anything except the indignation value before people start being distracted by something else, and nothing ever changed, except for the worse. Grantaire didn't expect anything to ever help. All the opposite of Enjolras, it seemed.

\- So ? Enjolras pressed. What is your opinion ?

\- My what ?

\- Your opinion. On the situation.

\- I don't really care.

Enjolras' smile disappeared and Grantaire almost took back his words in hope of seeing it back. Almost.

\- You don't really care.

\- No. Striking doesn't work.

\- Strikes are a right we won, and we need to use it.

\- For what ? Grantaire retorted. It doesn't work. The people you're impeding aren't the people you want to pressure.

\- I don't want to... that's not the point !

\- Yes it is. You want to pressure them, that's the word. But by striking and making other people's lives so complicated, you don't get their support, you get their aggravation. And the ones you want to convince - if you want - count on this, they count on the people to turn on them. Divide to better conquer. You know that one ?

Enjolras' face had taken on an interesting shade of red, almost as vivid as his hoodie, and if his eyes had the power to kill, Grantaire would have been dead for at least a minute. Which was hilarious, but not at satisfying as needling an idealist young boy should have been.

\- Okay, okay, he finally said, raising his hands in apology. Sorry, I can't resist...

\- You can't resist mocking me and my ideals, Enjolras said in an icy tone.

\- I'm not... okay I am, a little, but I can't help it. I'm an asshole. Sorry.

Enjolras' expression softened a little. A very little.

\- You don't believe in what we're doing.

\- Not really. As I said, I've seen it fail several times. People get distracted, they become interested in something else, and the law passes. That's why they often decide to vote them just before the end of the year, so people tire out.

\- Well we won't. We're going to fight and prevent that law.

Back to full fury mode again, and Grantaire's heart was beating faster than ever. This wasn't good for him, not at all. Should he pursue a relationship with Enjolras, they would probably fight day and night about everything. On the other hand, it would do him good to have someone challenging him about his ideals. Then again, why would Enjolras want a relationship with an ass whose first reaction was to needle him ? And why would he want one ? Except that Enjolras was beautiful, and enthusiastic, and even a little convincing. Not that Grantaire would join his crusade, but he felt a little less defeatist listening to him. He raised his mug.

\- I’ll drink to that.

Enjolras did the same, clinking the cups together.

\- Will you join us ? At least to see ?

\- I may. It may not concern me, as an artist, but I must say, it intrigues me. Maybe I should check it out.

Ah, the smile was back. That was the right thing to say. Enjolras grabbed one of the numerous pencils strewn around, a piece of paper, and scribbled on it.

\- Here, that's my number. And the next protest. We'd be happy to get some support.

Grantaire took the paper, nodded.

\- I may come. Just to see.

Enjolras gave him another smile, then gathered his cat in his arms. Well, end of the date. Grantaire walked him to the door with a pinch of regret. Well, at least Enjolras didn't throw his coffee at his head ; that one generally hurt. But he didn't seem too enthusiastic.

They stopped at the door, and Enjolras turned to face him. Grantaire only noticed how small he was ; the top of his curls barely reached Grantaire's chin. He vaguely wondered how he would look, wearing one of his oversized shirts, then kicked the thought out of his mind ; this was really not the time.

\- So... he started.

\- Thank you for helping Jude, Enjolras cut.

\- Jude ?

Enjolras lifted the cat a little higher.

\- That's him.

\- Oh. Hello Jude, Grantaire said solemnly, patting the cat on the head.

\- He seems to like you.

\- That's the Grantaire effect. It works on cats, dogs and little grannies.

\- Not just on them.

... What ? What was that ? Was he starting to hear things ? But Enjolras was pointedly not looking at him, and his ears were an interesting shade of pink.

\- Well, Grantaire said casually, I don't want to hold your revolution back. See you around ?

\- If Jude runs away again, I will certainly.

\- I'll keep my window open, then. See you, Jude !

And with that, they were gone. Grantaire retreated back to his room, dropped on his bed and shoved his head in his pillow. It was way too early or too late to try and wrap his brain around what had just happened. Pretty boys, lost cats, serenades.... that was too much for him right now. But Enjolras.... Enjolras had dropped into his life, that was a present from Lady Luck with a shiny bow on top, and he wasn't going to let it escape him. Even if it meant going to protests and listen to all those happy students with eyes shining with idealism talk about how things would work if only the world was perfect. He'd have to tone down his cynicism and make an effort, but he could at least try. Carefully, he extracted the paper Enjolras gave him and put it on the nightstand. What was the best time to wait for before calling, if it was for a protest ? Oh, he'll see tomorrow. And maybe it would turn out well.

(It almost didn't. Who would have guessed that someone as pretty as Enjolras would write so badly ?)


End file.
